You’d grown up with Paul Atreides woven into the background of your life.

It wasn’t exactly by choice—more like by design. Your families had been bound together long before either of you were born, a web of trade agreements, marriage prospects whispered about in corridors, and shared enemies. You’d been to more political dinners and formal receptions with him than you could count.

But somewhere between being paraded around in miniature formalwear and surviving endless lectures on court etiquette, you’d found a kind of solace in each other. He was the only person your age who understood what it was like—every smile calculated, every move watched, every friendship strategic. So you’d declared yourselves best friends in the way only children in a gilded cage could: quietly, stubbornly, with a shared smirk across a conference table while your parents discussed treaties.

And now, Arrakis.

You’d known of the planet, of course—its politics, its spice, its dangers—but stepping off the shuttle was still a shock. The heat was heavy, dragging at every breath, the air dry enough to pull the moisture from your lips in seconds. The Atreides’ new palace loomed against the desert horizon, all sharp lines and muted colors, a fortress in a world that wanted to swallow it whole.

Your family had come to greet the Atreides formally, to reaffirm old ties. Paul had been waiting in the courtyard when you arrived, dressed in the local style but still unmistakably him. The grin he’d given you had been almost enough to make you forget the suffocating heat.

Almost.

That night, you were told you’d be staying over—a courtesy in Caladan’s cool, damp climate, but here, on Arrakis, it was a practical necessity. The sun’s heat lingered in the stones long after it set; travel at night was ill-advised.

And that’s when the problem started.

It was explained to you in hushed tones by one of the palace staff: a miscalculation in the day’s water distribution. The Arrakeen system was precise, every drop accounted for, and while the Duke’s household would never run dry, tonight, the allocation had been stretched thin. There was enough water for one bath.

Which, apparently, meant sharing.

With Paul.

You’d stared at the servant like they’d just suggested you duel a sandworm.

“This is… common?” you asked, your voice a little higher than usual.

“Among the Fremen, water is sacred,” the servant replied carefully. “To waste it is unthinkable. For those of high rank, this is… not unheard of.”

Unheard of on Caladan, maybe. But here? You were already being ushered toward one of the private bathing rooms before you could fully protest.

Paul was already there when you stepped in, leaning casually against the tiled edge, sleeves rolled up, looking far too composed for someone about to share a bath with his so-called best friend. His gaze flicked over you, and something in his expression shifted—just slightly.

“So,” he said, a corner of his mouth twitching. “Looks like we’re saving water.”

You crossed your arms. “This is absurd.”

“This is Arrakis,” he countered, as though that explained everything. Which, annoyingly, it kind of did.

The bath was shallow by Caladan standards, barely enough to sit in, the water warm from the desert heat. You tried not to think about the fact that this was the only bath water allotted for both of you tonight, or that every small movement sent ripples across to where he sat, close enough that your knees brushed under the surface.

Paul was maddeningly calm, leaning back against the stone, eyes half-lidded. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I think this is the first time in years we’ve been in the same room without at least four other people listening in.”

It was strange, sitting there in the dim, steam-scented air, the distant hum of Arrakeen nightlife muted by the thick walls. You’d spent your whole life next to Paul in one way or another, but this—this was the first time it felt like you were both outs